


A farewell to arm

by strongjaw



Category: The Wolf Among Us
Genre: Gen, POV, PTSD, Rated for swearing, beowulf reminiscing, mindflow at some point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 07:18:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7608880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strongjaw/pseuds/strongjaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Wolf shoved his talons in Grendel's shoulder, familiar pain echoed in the monster's head. The sound of ancient battle filled his ears, the battle that was being retold for ages, every time getting new details, having new senses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A farewell to arm

**Author's Note:**

> Just so you know, I'm terrible at puns. (And I like hating Hemingway)
> 
> The idea of choice in the game: your Bigby can tear Gren's arm or just walk away - is awesome. So I was planning to write about it from Gren's POV for a long time. Includes ironic Holly and a Spaced reference. Not betaed, so if you see something please tell. Thanks for reading and tolerating :)

When the Wolf shoved his talons in Grendel's shoulder, familiar pain echoed in the monster's head. The sound of ancient battle filled his ears, the battle that was being retold for ages, every time getting new details, having new senses.

New bullshit, too. Like, a human decided to prove that he's the center of the world now and ready to act violent against another violence – and to win. Well, good for him, that Beowulf probably was clever, but no one remembers that he just strove for profit and gold and power and didn't give a shit about someone's life and/or honor. (Holly tried to explain him that for humans it all means the same, but Gren would just waive away.)  
  
When the fucking hero had left him without his arm (unfortunately, this part of story was no bull), Grendel had to lick his wounds (including hurt pride, Holly would add) for long, long time. Truth being told, he never actually believed he could have his limbs in one piece again. He didn't think he would enjoy mundies' drinks and drugs, either, but like some other things in the brand new world, that was inevitable.  
  
In simpler times he'd had to get used to the new condition and to steal farmers' livestock faster than before, to attack the villages more furiously, to mourn his loss, his damned arm, more ferociously, just to pay back for human arrogance and overconfidence. Looking back, Grendel grimly admits that declaring a war and fighting armless is much better than carry cargo boxes with two arms in the humans world for some asshole mundy boss. But you gotta do what you gotta do when your home is taken, and Gren's not that stupid to try to win a losing fight twice, so he moved to New York with other Fables. (Okay, maybe it was for Holly who had him at his senses, cause he honestly considered fighting back.)  
  
They were defeated, but still alive, and it was fine with Gren. The phantom pain though still made his teeth grit, bringing back the old anger, fear, aggression (“Watercolors,” Holly usually scoffed), and he hated the thought of it, but he managed to live with it. He had too many years to tame the bloodlust and thirst for vengeance, to accommodate, and to see that humans probably aren't so helpless and weak, after all. Also, when you spend hundreds of years in pubs and bars, you almost start believing that alcohol really helps deafen city noises and your own desperate cry. (Didn't really help now, when some dickhead sheriff was trying to tear his fucking arm though.)  
  
Funny thing, with humility and humanity (they had to start using glamours to survive) Grendel finally had known some inner peace, and one day – he couldn't remember which one – his right arm was back, just like that. It felt alien anyway, and Gren didn't understand if he just used to live without it or the arm _wasn't_ really his anymore. People retold his story, made a myth out of it, a fucking legend, and he stopped being a real monster, and his torn limb became just a symbol of the fear humans no longer had. So he had a specter of his arm back as some kind of pity trophy.  
  
The daily routine made it look and feel real again, and he almost learned to ignore the occasional pain, cause frankly, they always had bigger problems to whine about than some damned arm that wasn't even supposed to exist, right?  
  
And then this (literally) son of a bitch came. Invaded their home even. Bigby fucking Wolf. He looked human, and acted like one now, too. They all did at Fabletown, having enough money to pretend it's all fine and they're a part of a friendly community, which was another bullshit. They may seem like a family, but when it came to trouble, Snow and others were on their own. Yeah, the Crooked Man looked like a saviour, but again, Gren wasn't _that_ stupid. (Alright, maybe Holly talked him out of it, too.)  
  
Brought out of thoughts to brutal reality and his fresh wound, feeling helpless again, almost whimpering, with pulsing shoulder, Grendel was preparing for another round of pain, and seemed like Holly was screaming but he couldn't hear her anyway, the colors in front of his eyes were too bright, and images of Beowulf and Sheriff blurring and merging. He thought about another age of endless phantom pain, another waiting when the overboiled rage and hate to humans (and - wolves) would calm again, and new habits. He almost imagined helping Holly with her bar chairs with one hand, when one day he might finally feel his arm back again like nothing happened...  
  
But Wolf was fucking slow, and Holly's voice abrupt when Gren heard the Sheriff retreating to the bar and asking for a drink. Just like that. Almost casually, if not for a broken glass. Asshole. With his withdrawing steps the pain in Gren's shoulder almost receded to the dull ache of the injured muscle. The arm was here though. Lots of blood, but it was here, just a deep wound with claws marks. He was shocked, clearly, trying to get up with help of injured arm. He swore, grunting, and sat back again. When he was a huge sack of meat like now, he couldn't even move properly. Shit.  
  
Now the pain was terrible, and he tried to count how many bottles of vodka with aspirin he'd need to pass out right here, on the floor. Turned out he needed none, cause the next thing he remembered was Holly muttering something about dumb idiots when she helped him up. “Is it about me or Wolf and Woody?” Gren managed to ask sitting at the bar when she huffed and spatted: “Both, now shut up,” then fixed him a drink, drinking herself right from the bottle.  
  
He snorted, “Love you too,” and drank as well, holding whiskey glass in the left hand and trying to wrap his mind about what happened. He could've lost his arm again, but there was no overrated hero anymore. No Beowulf, no new recruited hero Bigby – the bastard was long gone. Gren hated to admit that as crazy as Wolf was, he spared him this time, even though he didn't have to. (Well, Gren wouldn't be so nice if he was Sheriff. Would he?) So he took the glass with his right hand and wincing thought that maybe not every story has to repeat itself.


End file.
